


Beneath This Mask

by eragon19



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU- V for Vendetta, M/M, Slow Build, Smuggler John, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, V for Vendetta fusion, everyone has secrets, follows the basic premise of the movie but with different out comes, no need to watch the movie to understand, vigilante Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:02:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19
Summary: In the not too distant future England has become a land ruled by a fascist government. John Watson, a former army man now BTN employee, keeps his head down while harboring a secret that could have him thrown in jail...or worse. All of this goes to hell when he meets the mysterious V, a morally dubious freedom fighter determined to take down the government at all costs.As John is swept into his plan he finds his life careening out of control, the only guiding point a mysterious man in a mask that John suspects hides much more than just his face.*A V for Vendetta Fusion fic*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may remember this fic as I posted the 1st chapter a year ago. I wasn't happy with so I took it down to work out the problems and take some time to mull over the idea. Now I'm back! I've written ahead on this and can assure you that it won't be abandoned again. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to Lynn for being an amazing beta!

“I’ve seen it you know? I’ve been there. To those former united States. I’ve seen them. The waste of humanity all clustered there. Muslims. Homosexuals. Degenerates. I’ve seen it.”

John Watson rolled his eyes at his tiny telly as he ran a brush through his hair, smoothing it out. Kitty Riley’s pale, red lipped face filled the screen as she barked at her cheering audience, spewing her story about her supposed trip to America. A trip John –thanks to his job at the British Telecommunications Network, the BTN,- knew never happened. 

With a sigh he clicked off the telly. There was only so much Kitty Riley one could take. He turned back to the mirror and regarded himself, taking in his jeans, shirt and cream jumper. Not bad. He looked date- night casual, which was the perfect cover. Just then his eyes fell on the clock on his dresser and widened in shock. It was nine forty-four, nearly curfew.

“Ah fuck” he hissed, mentally calculating how long it would take to get to Irene’s as he grabbed his jacket and jogged out the door.

 

****

 

Many miles away and underground, a very different man sat in front of his vanity and regarded himself in the mirror, taking in the ruined flesh of his face. It didn’t matter, it never mattered. Especially when no one saw your face.

Kitty Riley crowed in the background, her audience cheering as she worked them into frenzy over her recent trip to America. A trip he knew- thanks to several glaringly obvious facts gleaned from her appearance- never happened. With a sigh he reached for his mask and slid it on, the cool material smooth against his rough skin.

Strapping on his knives, he glanced at the clock. Nine forty-four. He was right on time. 

Throwing his black cape over his shoulders he glided out the door of his home, mentally reviewing his plan as he went. 

 

****

 

John huddled deeper into his jacket as he hurried down the pavement. The November night was colder than he had anticipated, and in his haste he’d forgotten his scarf. A woman’s tinny voice cut through the night air from the speakers mounted on every other lamp post, echoing slightly in the deserted street.

_ “A yellow coded curfew is now in effect. For your safety please remain indoors.” _

John shivered and flipped up the collar of his coat. A chilly wind blew down the street, ruffling his hair and tugging at his coat. He would have to ask Irene if he could stay the night. In fact, the sane thing to do would be to turn back now and head home. John was doubting his sanity more and more these days given everything he’d been doing. 

If he was being totally honest with himself, walking the streets past curfew gave him a thrill. There was something surreal about London when it was dark and deserted, with Finger Men- London’s not-so-secret police- on the prowl. It made something stir low and deep in John’s belly. Despite this thrill, he still tried to find cover before the curfew took effect. Thrill seeking was one thing, getting arrested by Finger Men would be something else entirely. He and Irene had been trying to create a map of alleys and by-ways, to help John get from place to place undetected, but it was proving to be more difficult than they’d anticipated. 

His thoughts were interrupted as a shadowy figure slid out of a doorway, and made its way across the street. John stopped walking. The figure was a ways up the road, and John was keeping to the shadows, but he could have still been spotted. Squaring his shoulders, he turned down a side street, keeping close to the wall and checking over his shoulder. All clear. Turning back around, he swore under his breath as he noticed another figure at the end of the road. Luckily his back was to John, but luck was fickle thing. 

Right, time to head home then. 

Going back the way he came was out of the question. The Finger Man he’d spotted first could still be lurking. Ducking into a dark door way, John surveyed his surroundings. The street he was on was useless as there weren’t any turn offs. John took a deep breath as the adrenaline was taking effect. His hands were rock steady in his pockets and his breathing was even. It was time for action. 

Poking his head out of the doorway, he saw that the Finger Man at the top of street was still there. Right then, it looked like going back the way he came was going to have to be an option. Moving as slowly and quietly as possible, he edged his way back down the street, keeping his back pressed to the wall so he could keep both ends of the street in view. Reaching the main road, he carefully peered up and down the street. All clear. John didn’t like it though, there were too many street lights. He would be spotted instantly if someone even casually glanced down the road. 

Pressing back into the shadows, one option presented itself. Diagonally across from him, a dark alley entrance yawned. He could cut across the street, and make it there in less than ten seconds. It’s wear the alley lead- if it wasn’t a dead end- that was the problem. Well, one problem at a time, John thought to himself. Carefully checking his surroundings again, he took a deep breath and darted out into the street.

The run definitely took less than ten seconds, however it left John cringing at how loud his foot falls had been. The Finger Man at the top of the side street would have heard him, so he had to keep moving. He ran down the alley, still trying to be quiet despite the urge to hurry. Even if the Fingers had heard him, he might still be able to throw them off if he kept quiet.  

These were his thoughts as he rounded the corner- the alley hadn’t been a dead end thank God- and ran smack into someone.

Fear surged through John’s veins as a pair of hands swooped up and grabbed his upper arms, steadying him. John promptly knocked those hands off and pulled back, hands up to fight as he surveyed who he’d run into.

It didn’t have to be a Finger Man, he thought desperately. It could be someone who was simply late getting home.

It was a Finger Man.

John could tell just from the smarmy, over-confident look on the man’s face. No one looked like that if they were sneaking around past curfew. He’d know. 

He had two options; punch the man in the face and make a break for it, or play innocent and hope he’d get off. 

“Well well, what  _ do _ we have here?” an oily voice from behind John said. 

Fuck. Option two it was then. At least until an opportunity to fight them off presented itself.

John slowly lowered his arms and turned so both men were in sight, his thoughts racing. They were both taller than him, the one he’d run into was beefier- that would make him slower- and the second was redd thin. The beefy one first, he thought, then reedy. 

“So sorry about that,” he said pleasantly to Beefy, making sure to throw a warm a smile at reed. “I was in a rush.”

“And where was a little man such as yourself in a rush to at this hour?” the big one said with a mean smile. His nose was red from the cold and John imagined crushing it with his fist.

“It’s my girlfriend you see. She’s very ill and she needs me.” John said, making his voice as plaintive as possible, while edging slightly toward Beefy. He needed to be closer to strike. 

“Sick girlfriend eh?” the finger man said, sharing a smug smile with his partner, “Never heard that one before, have we David?”

“Hum no,” David replied, his voice unpleasantly nasal, “It’s usually an uncle.”

John used this time to slip closer to the bigger one, his hands loose at his sides. Just keep them talking, that was all he had to do. Just keep them talking.

“Maybe we should come with you!” Beefy chirped, his voice cloyingly chipper, “We could take turns  _ helping _ your girlfriend.” He and David guffawed at this, and despite the extreme danger of his situation John found himself fighting the urge to roll his eyes. 

He offered a weak smile as they laughed, all the while inching closer to his mark. They’re laughter died down, and John stilled. He was close enough, now he just had to wait for the right opportunity. 

“Now then, if you come quietly it’ll go easier for you. Well, maybe,” Beefy drawled, suddenly seeming bored with the whole episode. He clamped one hand on John’s shoulder, the other sliding into his pocket to presumably reach for his handcuffs. John wasted no time.

Moving as fast as possible he grabbed the big man’s wrist with one hand and twisted, yanking the man off balance and toward him. His other hand shot up, landing a punch square on the nose, with a satisfying spray of red. John might be short, but he was  _ strong _ . 

Beefy yelped in pain and pulled away from John. Using his momentum, John shoved him hard, sending him sprawling. Without wasting time he turned to the David and bulled into him as he ran  towards John. 

He’d intended to send David sprawling, unfortunately the man was stronger than he looked. 

He met John’s tackle head on and the two of them scuffled. John managed to kick one of the finger man’s legs out from under him and they crashed to the ground, in a pile of punches and kicks. John twisted, drove an elbow hard into David’s side and got on top of him. His arm was drawn back for a punch when heavy hands landed on his shoulders and pulled. 

The other one was back.

John twisted violently, trying to throw Beefy off. The motion jerked roughly at his wounded shoulder and sharp pain roared through the joint, making John howl as his arm went limp. 

Beefy yanked him to his feet, causing John’s shoulder muscles to scream in protest. David surged up and dealt John a swift punch to the stomach, knocking the air out of him. He sagged weakly between the hands holding him up, before Beefy unceremoniously tossed him to the ground and both men loomed over him. 

There was something much worse than murder in their eyes. 

John looked up at them, terror setting in as he realised just how fucked his situation had become. 

“Looks like the little man’s got some claws eh?” Beefy hissed, blood dripping down his chin. He yanked a night stick out of his coat and flipped it open, revealing its modified spiked tip. 

“Lucky for us, so do we.”

John wheezed, trying desperately to get air back into his lungs as his mind scrambled for a solution. Just then a movement from the shadows caused all three men to look up. What John saw made his eyes widen in shock.

At the mouth of the alley stood a man. At least John thought it was a man. Whoever it was, they were clad in black from head to heel, save for- and possibly most disturbingly of all- a plain white mask that covered his entire face. The mask had no painted features, instead a ghoulish smile and high eyebrows were embossed onto the polished surface, while two eye holes and a slit at the mouth yawned black in the surface. It seemed to glow in the dim light.

The person stepped further into the alley, revealing more of himself. Instead of a mass of blackness, he morphed into someone- a tall someone John noted- dressed in black, with a wide brimmed hat and a cape. A fucking cape.

“It seems we have a problem gentlemen,” the person said, his voice a deep, slightly muffled rumble from behind the mask.

Maybe it was the adrenaline or the pain in his shoulder making him go batty, but John found himself fighting a giggle. A fucking masked man in a cape come to (hopefully) rescue him. It was like one of those cheesy action movies.

“Who the fuck are you?” David croaked, clearly he was missing the humour of the situation.

The masked man seemed to sigh, as if disappointed by the question. 

“Unimportant,” he said and the glimmer of a blade beneath his cape made John sit up straighter against the alley wall. The Finger Men turned away from John, their attention now focused on the blade- no  _ blades,  _ for there were two now- in the man’s gloved hands. 

John was rooted to the spot, trying to get his breath back as he watched what the man would do next. 

David wasn’t so cautious. He rushed forward, nightstick held out to the side. The man in black wasted no time. A flash of silver flew from the man’s hand and pierced David’s skinny throat. There was a spray of blood, a weak gurgle, then Reed’s body crumpled to the ground. 

Beefy let out a roar and John was on his feet in an instant, his adrenaline surging once again. He tackled Beefy from behind, wrapping an arm around his throat and yanking his head back. The two of them struggled. Suddenly Beefy let out a sharp cry. John looked down his body and saw a silver knife sticking out of his fat stomach, blood pulsing out from around the blade. 

He tore his eyes away from the gore and looked toward the man in black. He’d scooped Reed’s night stick off the ground and was rapidly approaching. John dropped Beefy to the ground and backed off. Although the man had helped him there’s no telling what he would do next. 

The man seemed to be ignoring John for the most part. Nightstick in hand he stood over the whimpering Finger Man. He looked at him a moment, head cocked to the side, then in one swift move he brought the night stick down sharply. There was a sickening crunch and the Finger Man went still. 

John stared as the man slowly straightened and stepped over the body, before looking at him. The mask was downright creepy, and having it stare at him was even worse. The two stared at each other for a long moment, the tension building. John finally opened his mouth to ask- well he wasn’t quite sure what- when the man suddenly spoke. 

“Don’t bother asking,” the man said.

“What?” John croaked, his throat felt like sand. 

“Who I am. Don’t bother asking.”

Well this was just getting stranger and stranger.

“I wasn’t going to?” John said, his voice lilting with uncertainty. Not being able to see the man’s face made the conversation difficult to navigate.

The man began to turn away, then seemed to think better of it and turned back to John.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinked in surprise.

“What?”

He swore he could  _ feel _ the man roll his eyes. 

“Where were you stationed? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan.” John replied, leaning forward to hear to the man better, his back still firmly against the wall. 

“Army. Part of the juvenile assignment program. Now you’re smuggler.”

John’s eyebrows rose in shock. “How- how did you know that?”

“Simple really. The way you hold yourself screams army, as do the tan lines at your wrists and neck. No one goes on holiday anymore, so they can’t be from that. Your methods of defence are also the typical style of those in the service, however there are elements of you fighting style that are different from what you were taught. This shows you were fighting people off before you entered the military. These deviations are slight though, merely adjustments for your under average height, which shows you were in rough circumstances around the same time you learned combat. Thus, the juvenile service. As for the smuggling, your coat is a little large for you and it contains several large, concealed pockets. Perfect for carrying small things without anyone being the wiser. That, coupled with the time of night you’re out can only mean one thing; smuggler.”

John stared, completely floored, before finally finding his tongue. 

“That… was amazing.”

The man in black seemed to start in surprise, “Really?” he asked, head cocked to the side.

Absurdly, John felt himself smiling. There were two dead bodies on the ground, he’d just been accused of smuggling, and here he was, smiling away at a mad man in a hideous mask. 

“Yes,” he said, “Absolutely amazing.”

The man regarded him a moment. John thought he was smiling, but had no way to tell.

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they say then?”

“Nothing. They usually run off screaming.”

John chuckled, “Can’t imagine why that would happen.”

Once again, John got the feeling the man was smiling behind his mask.

“What do you smuggle?” the man asked suddenly. 

“Tell me who you are.” John countered, eyebrows raised. As thankful as John was for being saved, he wasn’t about to reveal anything more to this man. At least not until he knew more about him. As if that would happen.

“Ah, very good,” the man purred, sounding pleased. He looked over his shoulder for a moment, before looking down at his boots. “I was wondering,” he said, his voice hesitant, “if you would be interested in accompanying me to a concert tonight?”

John blinked at him, just when he thought it couldn’t get any weirder, “A concert?” 

“Yes,” the man sounded eager now, he was leaning toward John, hands clasped behind his back. “You see I’m a musician of sorts, and I was on my way to a concert tonight. Would you like to come?”

A knife wielding musician who took down Finger Men while wearing a mask and a cape… Jesus fucking Christ…

Seeming to sense his hesitation the man continued, “I’ll see you safely home afterward of course.”

John felt that similar stirring in his belly. The same way he felt when he walked London after curfew. The same way he’d felt when he’d been fighting the Finger Men.  

Swallowing, John nodded, “Yeah, sure. I’ll- I’ll come.”

The man straightened, his posture radiating his pleasure. Turing and flicking his cape over shoulder he strode off. “Come along then,” he called back to John, stepping over David on his way. With one last glance at the dead Finger Men, John followed.

“I’m John,” he said, once he’d caught up with the man.

The man nodded, looking down at him as he cut through the dark passageways, clearly sure of where he was going. Maybe he could help with the map…

“John,” the man said slowly, as if testing the name out. John nodded.

“And you?” he asked, when it was clear the man wasn’t going to introduce himself.

“Oh right. V. You may call me V.”

Obviously it wasn’t his real name, but John knew asking him would be futile. 

“Thank you V,” he said instead, “For what you did back there.”

V merely nodded, and they continued on in silence. 

 

****

 

A while later John found himself on a rooftop, London spread out dead and silent beneath him. The Old Bailey sored in front of them, glimmering dully in the moonlight. John wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, but he was sure it wasn’t a concert.

“I um- I don’t see any instruments.”

“Ah yes, very observant John,” V said, walking to the edge of the roof, “Tell me, do you know what the date is?”

“The fourth of November,” John replied. As strange as this whole thing was, he couldn’t help but be a little curious. 

“Not anymore,” V muttered, turning back to face the roof edge.

As if on cue, the chimes of Big Ben cut through the night. V raised his arms, “Do you hear it John?” he asked, his voice soft, almost reverent. 

“Hear what?” John said, approaching the building’s edge.

“The music.” The man began waving his arms, as if conducting an orchestra.

John stared at him, mouth slightly agape. What the hell…. Just then he heard it. It was very soft, but definitely there. Music. 

“I hear it!” John cried, as the music built in volume. It was a full orchestra, building in power as V swayed his arms in time with them. Peering over the side of the building John saw windows and doors swing open, as people cautiously peeked out to see where the noise was coming from.

‘The speakers,’ he thought, ‘it’s coming from the curfew speakers.’

Operatic singing joined in the music as V waved his arms faster.

“Here comes the crescendo!” he cried over the now blaring music.

The music crested and John let out a shout as the explosions started. The base of the Old Bailey exploded outward as fireworks launched into the sky, painting a colourful backdrop for the destruction. Screams erupted from the crowd below as the building exploded, the blasts oddly in time with the music. John turned to V, horrified. The man was still waving his arms, cackling madly, as the gold statue was torn to shreds, pieces flying. 

Suddenly the enormity of everything that had happened that night hit John fully. He’d watched and taken part in the murder of two Finger Men, then went with the murderer to blow up the Old Bailey.  Jesus Christ, he was fucked. He needed to get away. Now.

V turned to him as he backed away, the flames painting his mask orange. John stared at him a moment, before he turned tail and took off into the night. As he ran, he couldn’t help but notice a final set of fireworks spray a fiery V into the air.    
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath and a confrontation

The next day John felt as if he were in a dream. The night before he’d watched a madman in a weird costume blow up a building. Now he was at work in the BTN, getting coffee and doing his usual fetch and carry as if nothing had happened. Well that wasn’t totally true, all everyone could talk about was the destruction of the Old Bailey. The BTN was reporting that the destruction had been planned, with the fireworks and music put together at the last moment for a cheerful send off. 

“That’s a load of shit, isn’t it?” Mike Stamford said, nodding his head toward the small television mounted on the wall. Sarah Sawyer, the BTN’s darling and top news anchor was delivering the story about the ‘demolition’.

“Sounds so to me,” John said with a shrug, trying his best to keep a straight face. He hadn’t told anyone about last night. He couldn’t, not unless he wanted to be dragged off to an interrogation room somewhere. 

“I wonder what-

Mike’s words were cut off as Irene’s assistant, Kate entered the room, an exasperated look on her face. “John I assume you still work for me yes?”

John’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline and he opened his mouth to say something appropriately cutting. He did  _ not _ work for Kate, who seemed to feel every runner at the BTN was at her beck and call. 

“Irene’s ready for her tea, have it up in ten.” Kate continued, ignoring John and whirling out the door. 

“Oh yeah, you had a meeting with the Woman last night. Didn’t you?” Mike said with a wink, as John pushed off the break room counter and made for the door. “How’d it go?” 

John couldn’t very well tell Mike the truth. That he’d been accosted by Finger Men and then saved by a mad man who blew up a building to the tune of classical music. Deflection was his best bet then. 

“I don’t kiss and tell mate. You know that,” he said with a grin. 

The break room door closed behind him on Mike’s laughter, and John swallowed the bile in his throat as he wondered just how long he had until someone much worse than Mike began asking him questions. 

 

***

 

Miles away in an underground room that only a select few people knew about, CDI Greg Lestrade sat a long table awaiting Chancellor Moriarty’s call.  He’d been placed in charge of the investigation into the bombing of the Old Bailey, and told all his other cases were to be out on hold until it was solved.

Before, when he was still new to the force, an opportunity like this would have thrilled him; having the chance to speak directly to the Chancellor, the glory that would come along with solving such a high-profile case. Now he knew better. Now he knew that working so closely with Chancellor Moriarty and those he favoured was more a curse than a blessing. It meant the consequences were more severe if he failed, it meant a higher possibility of being used as a scapegoat if someone more favoured than him fucked up.

The chair next to him squeaked slightly as it was pulled out. Mary Morstan, the head of the Finger-the British Secret Police- slid into the seat next him, giving him one of her usual eerie smiles. Greg smiled back as best as he could, regretting his choice of seat. On his left was Charles Magnussen, head of BTN who was downright creepy at the best of times, and now on his right was the most dangerous person in England; Mary Morstan. 

As Greg shifted in his seat trying to get comfortable the screen in front of them lit up, and Chancellor Moriarty’s pale face filled the entire wall in front of them. His eye cold and calculating as he took them all in. 

“Well now, let’s see what you have for me hum….

 

***

 

The tea tray rattled as John opened the door to Irene’s office. The Woman, as she was called everywhere but to her face, was standing with her back to John behind her desk a sleek mobile pressed to her ear. Watery sunlight illuminated the room through rain slick windows, highlighting the white on white décor of the office. The woman herself was clad in a form fitting, rich red dress, no doubt for the effect of contrast.

John walked deeper into the room, as Irene continued to ignore him, his footsteps muffled by the thick white carpeting. He set the tray carefully onto the round table near the window and began setting out the tea things. 

“That’s your  _ job _ Philip. If you can’t light me to look halfway decent then why are you still here?”

John smirked as he picked up the squat white teapot, it’s thin gold lines shining dully in the light, and poured steaming water into Irene’s cup, making it just how she liked. 

“Well that’s between you and Sally. Keep me posted,” Irene sighed, turning to face John and giving him an exasperated smile. 

John grinned back. Irene’s frustrations with her lighting crew was a problem he’d listened to her rant about before, and looked like he would be again. Turning away, he gazed out the window, at drenched London spread out below him as Irene talked on.

Finally, there was a deep sigh and the phone clattered onto the desk top. 

“Remind me again why I don’t fire him?” she sighed, flopping into her plush office chair and stretching her legs out in front of her.

John grinned and brought her tea over, “Because you have a soft spot for the skinny ones?” 

Irene laughed, one long elegant arm reaching for her tea.

“And where were  _ you _ last night?” she asked, taking a deep sip. “I never took you for one to stand a lady up.”

The easy atmosphere in the room shattered as memories of last night came flooding back. John swallowed hard and debated whether or not he should tell Irene the truth. He knew he could trust her, she was the only person who knew what he did when he snuck around after hours, hell she  _ helped _ him by funding and sourcing supplies, but last night was a something else entirely. 

“I had a late start and there were more Finger men around than usual. I thought it best to stay in,” he gave her the best sheepish look he could muster. “I’m sorry, I would have called but-

“The lines aren’t safe,” Irene finished, nodding, “Don’t worry John, you made the right choice considering what happened last night.” She nodded towards the large telly on the opposite wall that was showing the ‘demolition’ of the Old Bailey on a loop.

John gave her a shrewd look, “You know it wasn’t a demolition?” 

“Well obviously,” she said with a long suffering look, “Sarah always blinks too much when she’s telling a story she knows isn’t true.” Irene leaned forward, her voice dropping, “The higher ups are saying it was a terrorist attack.”

John’s stomach dropped and he slowly sank into one of the chairs in front of Irene’s desk.  “Do they have any suspects?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice level.

Irene shrugged, “It’s all hush hush at the moment. Even my sources can’t get much details. But John,” she placed a hand on his arm, “Maybe for the time being you shouldn’t continue your…night work. The Finger will be cracking down harder than ever, and there’s rumours that the curfew will be extended.”

Irene was giving him a stern look, as if she was expecting a fight. If John hadn’t been with V the night before, he knew he would have argued. He would have said he wasn’t letting some manic stop him from helping those he could, but now that he knew the authorities could be on to him laying low seemed like the smartest choice. Hell, getting out of London would have been the best choice, if it were possible.

“You right Irene,” he said, dread a hard lump in his stomach.

He needed to get home and figure out what to do. He had no illusions that he was safe just because the story wasn’t released to the wider public. He knew better, he knew that at this moment a team of Britain’s most ruthless were hunting V and by extension, John. 

“Are you alright?” Irene asked, peering at him over the rim of her cup.

John nodded, adrenaline coursing through his veins and making him calm. 

“Kate’s probably looking for me, I should get going,” he said, heading for the door.

Irene said something behind him, but he was too preoccupied with sorting through his escape options to pay attention.

Suddenly, as he was just about to open the door, the loud sound of static exploded from Irene’s television. John whirled back into the room ready to address the threat as the picture on the screen shook and static wavered over Sarah Sawyer’s face.

He met Irene’s worried eyes before stepping back into her office and closing the door behind him. The static slowly began to brighten and clear, as a horribly familiar face came into focus. 

John felt sweat break out across his forehead and under his arms as V’s face came into focus, the white mask grinning at the camera from a rooftop somewhere in London.

“Holy fuck,” he heard Irene  whisper as V’s picture became crystal clear on the screen.

“Good afternoon England,” V said, politely, as if he were over for dinner instead of hijacking television waves.

“I hate to interrupt such an intriguing news cast, but it seems some false information is being spread and I think it’s time you were told the truth. I don’t have much time as I’m sure at this very moment the idiots of the Finger are trying to trace this broadcast, so I’ll keep it brief.” 

“There was no celebratory demolition of the Old Bailey. That was me. I rigged bombs all over the structure along with the fire-works and music.  _ I _ destroyed the building. Your precious government wants to keep you in the dark as they believe idiots are easier to control, and they’re right. You drone-like masses swallow their lies so  _ easily _ , that sometimes I wonder why I even bother fighting for your freedom and your right to be as perpetually stupid as you choose.”

“ _ That’s  _ why I’m here today,” the man continued, the passion in his voice building, “I’m here to call on each and everyone of you to begin to  _ observe,  _ to question everything this government tries to spoon feed you. To  _ think _ . To fight against this government, against those who hold you in and box you up, those who persecute you for being different. I’m here to fight for you, but you need to do you part. You need to  _ think _ .”

The man was breathing hard now, his chest heaving. 

“I’ll be here England, helping you in the fight. Remember to  _ think _ .”

With that the screen went black bringing John face to face with his shocked reflection. There was a beat of silence, then both Irene’s office phone and mobile began to ring shrilly. John jumped at the sound and turned to face her. She picked up her mobile first and cringed as whoever was on the other end began to shout so loudly John could hear them from where he stood. 

John needed to get out of here, the finger would be swarming all over this place soon and he didn’t want to be here when they did. Without a word he stood up and darted out of Irene’s office, the dooring clicking softly shut behind him.

 

***

 

At New Scotland Yard, Greg Lestrade was barking orders into his phone as V’s broadcast played in the background. The madman had been going on for about a minute now, and his people were frantically trying to find the rooftop he was on. 

Behind Greg a grainy CCTV shot of V form the night he’d blown up the Bailey was taped to whiteboard, with all the information about the bombing scrawled around it. A line of red marker connected the image of V with a grainy image of John Watson taken from the same surveillance camera. A question mark hovered above the line, showing just how scant the met’s knowledge was.

Greg had sent men to Watson’s home, but they hadn’t turned anything up. The flat had nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to suggest John Watson was in league with a terrorist. Not the Greg was surprised, people like these knew how to hide in plain sight. Greg had been on his way to Watson’s work place himself when V’s broadcast had started. 

He slammed down the phone with a frustrated sigh when the door to his office swung open. He turned around, intending to take out his frustrations on whoever it was, but shut right up when he recognized the figure in the doorway.

It was Mary Morstan, head of the Finger and Chancellor Moriarty’s right hand woman. 

Greg swallowed as Miss Morstan gave him a chilling smile and sauntered into his office, her slender heels clicking across the floor.

“Long day Inspector?” she asked, her voice laced with amusement as she looked around his cluttered office.

Greg bristled at the mockery in her voice. Struggling to keep his tone neutral he said, “You  _ have  _ seen what’s on the telly haven’t you?” 

Mary turned her gaze to him and Greg swallowed as those cold blue eyes scrutinized him. 

“Of course I have, Detective Inspector. In fact I have a team on the way to apprehend the terrorist as we speak.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“Yes, we traced his broadcast. Apparently it’s coming from within the BTN,” she turned her gaze to the picture of John Watson and her eyes narrowed.

“What do you know of the associate?” she asked calmly, then as she saw Greg rushing to the door, “There’s no need for your team Inspector. My boys are more than capable, I assure you,” 

“This case is my division Miss Morstan,” Greg said, yanking open the door. He was about to shout for his team to mobilize when something on the telly caught his attention.

“Not any more. That’s why I’m here actually,” Mary slid into a chair, clearly not noticing, or choosing to ignore, Greg’s inattention. “Chancellor Moriarty wants you to work with me on this.”

If Greg were listening he would have bristled at the thought of having his team become an extension of the Finger, and quailed at the thought of having to work so closely with Mary Morstan, but he wasn’t. Instead his eyes were glued to the television screen, where V was wrapping up his address to the nation. Greg had missed most of it, too busy trying to trace the bastard and knowing other members of the team would be scrutinizing it down to the bone.

“I be here England, helping you in the fight. Remember to  _ think _ .”

Greg went cold.

That  _ tone _ . The condescending haughtiness of it took Greg back more than a decade, when he was a newly minted DI and had been stumped by a triple homicide in a locked room…

“We need to get to the BTN now,” he barked at Mary, forgetting his apprehension of her for a moment. “John Watson works there. He must have gotten V access.”

With that he was through the door his mind clouded with images of the past.

 

***

 

Back in the BTN building, John was facing pandemonium. V’s broadcast had ended a few minutes ago and almost simultaneously, the fire alarm had started blaring sending droves of already panicked people into the hallways. John tried his best to push through the crowd without drawing too much attention to himself. Although the slow pace was maddening, he was grateful for the cover of the crowd as it would make his departure less noticeable. 

He moved through the crowd, dodging around co-workers and trying to be one of the first to reach the elevators. Soon the hallway was packed, the people in front of John coming to a complete stand still as the crowd bottlenecked in front of the elevators. 

John craned his neck and stretched up onto his tiptoes, trying to see what was causing the hold up. Despite the heads and shoulders blocking his view, he was able to see a woman he recognized from the writing department frantically pushing the elevator button over and over to no avail. Just as he’d caught sight of her, the crowd jostled and he fell onto the flats of feet.

John scowled as he tried to figure out what to do next. There was a staff toilet at the other end of the corridor with a window that opened above a lower roof. He could escape that way, but the roof was a fair distance below the window, and a broken ankle was the last thing he wanted. He was still turning the pros and cons over in his mind when the stairwell door next to the elevator burst open, startling everyone and wrenching screams from some of the staff. 

Two men, one with grey hair,the other brown, came barreling through.

“Scotland Yard, everyone stay where you are!” the silver haired man shouted, holding his badge high above his head for everyone to see.

John’s body went cold with dread and he immediately began backing down the corridor, keeping his movements slow and smooth to avoid attention. He kept his eyes glued to the policemen as they scanned the crowd. They were looking for him!

He had only managed to move a few feet when the grey haired man’s eyes locked onto him and widened in shock.

“Stop right there!” he shouted, beginning to shove through the confused crowd towards John. 

John turned tail and ran, shoving people out of the way and dodging around others. Someone tried to grab him, their fingers grouping at his arm. John drove an elbow into them without looking, their cry of pain the only confirmation he’d made contact. The crowd thinned the further he got down the hallway, the officers hot on his tail. 

He sprinted around the corner and wrenched open an office door to the left. He knew the layout of this building like the back of his hand, and was going to use it to his advantage. 

Plan in mind, John hustled through the first office and opened a connecting door into another, all the offices on this side of the floor were connected by internal doors, creating one long space across the floor. He raced through the door and yanked open the other, before twisting around and darting back into a storage closet. The other connecting door began to slowly swing shut, hopefully making it look like John had continued on through. 

Inside the closet he came face to face with shelves of paper and boxes of office supplies. Turning to the lowest shelf, he began to pull boxes away from the wall, before sliding into the space under the shelf. Straining his arms, he yanked the boxes back in front of him and curled up, waiting to hear the Yarders pass through. 

With wooden shelf above him, the wall behind him, and the boxes in front, John’s hiding spot began to feel sickeningly like a casket. He ignored the thought and listened hard, getting distracted now would make him get caught.

Moments later two sets of running footsteps approached. One set barreled on through, obviously falling for John’s trick and thinking he’d gone into the other office, while the other slowed and came to a halt.

John held his breath as the closet door opened and one of the policemen entered. Sweat dripped from his brow and he clapped a hand over his nose and mouth as the Yarder stood there, no doubt looking the room over. 

The footsteps retreated and the door swung shut. 

John lay frozen for another minute before slowly sliding a box back to peer out.  The closet was empty. 

Taking a deep breath and knowing he didn’t have much time, he shoved the boxes out of the way and stood up. Cautiously, he cracked the closet door open, and peeked out. Seeing no one in sight he hustled back the way he came. 

The corridor outside was empty, though John could hear the din of voices around the corner. Clearing the building obviously wasn’t a priority. He took off in the opposite direction from the noise, glad for the thick carpeting underfoot and quietly eased open the men’s room door.

A row of stalls opposite the sinks greeted him, with his escape route high on the wall between them. Not wasting time, John bound across the floor to the window. He climbed quickly onto the slick counter and stretched toward the window, cursing the length of his arms. The tips of his fingers just brushed the sill and he stretched harder, his shoes slipping against the slick marble of the counter top.

Finally, he managed to grab onto the sill, and using the counter as a springboard, he jumped upward, hauling himself onto the narrow sill and shoving the window open. 

Grabbing onto the top the window, he slowly slid his legs through and began easing himself out until he hung on the tiny edge outside. Taking a deep breath John looked down as his arms screamed in protest. The title roof was an uncomfortable distance below him, not far enough to be fatal, but enough to have broken bones be a grim concern. 

Well, needs must. Inhaling sharply John kept his legs loose and let go.

The roof rushed up to meet him, and remembering his training John rolled as he fell, groaning at pressure it put on his wounded shoulder. 

He clung to the roof as he came to stop. The adrenaline was coursing through him, making him feel alive as he hopped to his feet and pressed his back against the wall to hide himself from the view of anyone looking out the window.

He was panting hard as he scanned the roof, trying to figure out his next move. He had two options; the fire escape, or breaking into another part of the building and exiting through there. The fire escape was the obvious choice as going back into the building would be suicide. Just as he was about to head for the metal ladder, a window to right broke in an explosion of glass and a blur of black fell through.

John froze in horror, watching as the person twisted they fell and landed smoothly on his feet. He recognize the person. It was the same black boots, cape and sculpted mask form yesterday. 

V.

V straightened and brushed himself off, his back to John. He straightened his hat and turned around calmly, as if he’d stumbled while on a walk, instead of jumping out of a window in a feat of gymnastics. Upon seeing John, he froze and the two men stood staring at eachother.

If John weren’t running for his life, he would have found the situation funny. Once again V managed to put him in perilous position that was somehow strangely amusing. Here he was standing on the rooftop of his work in the freezing November wind caught in a staring match with a masked vigilante. 

V recovered first and walked over to John, “They found you didn’t they?” 

His voice was the same muffled baritone John remembered.

“Yeah they did. What are you doing here?” John asked, an odd sort of clam falling over him. It was a familiar feeling. He’d always feel this strange sort of disconnect right before the gunfire starred, or when a particularly nasty case was brought into the medical tent.

“Broadcasting my message. Did you see it?” V asked as he came even closer, until John had to look up to see into his fa- mask.

John nodded and was about to ask how V managed to get into the building in that get up without causing a commotion when the man spoke again.

“They won’t stop looking for you. Do you know where you’ll go?”

John swallowed. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving gut churning anxiety in its wake.

“Outside London I suppose,” he said, his mind racing with half formed plans. He might have to call on Irene’s help after all.

“Outside London,” the man murmured to himself, then more loudly to John, “Do you know how you’ll get there?”

John stared at him, he was getting sick of playing twenty questions on a roof. 

“You worry about yourself hum?” John snipped, making to move past V when a had curled around his wrist, holding him back.

“You don’t have a plan, do you?” V asked quiety.

“What’s it you?” John asked twisting around to face him, “You should get out of here you know. They want you much more than they do me.”

“I’m sorry John, but you’re a liability. You’re going to have to come with me.”

John bristled at the order. It was far to reminiscent of the orders he’d gotten during his time at the juvenile enlistment service.

“No I really don’t” John said, trying to pull his wrist form V’s grasp.

The man was stronger than he looked, his fingers like iron under his gloves. 

“I’m sorry John,” V said quietly, “I truly am sorry for this.”

John suddenly found himself being yanked closer to V, there was a sharp pain in his neck and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, please tell me what you think! Also you should check out
> 
> [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10532370/chapters/23253348) I co-wrote with my wonderful beta Lynn!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up, things don't go well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I got a new job, so writing time was a little short. Thank you to the wonderful [221bestillmyheart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HighTimesWithHiddles) for being an amazing beta!

John awoke with a groan. His head was pounding, and his throat felt like sand. He cracked his eyes open, scrubbing a knuckle against his gummy eyelids, and slowly sat up.

 

He was in a dimly lit room surrounded by books. They were crammed into shelves that lined the three walls and stacked onto the tables and chairs littered around the room. The walls were made of pale yellow stone, and there were no windows. The only source of light came from the open door a few feat away and a tiny lamp in the corner. 

 

John blinked in confusion, where the fuck was he?

 

Suddenly, everything came rushing back. V’s broadcast, the policemen chasing him, the conversation on the roof. V had taken him, kidnapped him. 

 

He should be frightened, by all intents and purposes he should be downright terrified that a terrorist had kidnapped him, but instead all John felt was rage. Not the sharp stab of anger that burned bright whenever he watched the news, but instead the cold kind that made his head clear. The kind that meant he was beyond anger and well into  _ rage.  _

 

Who the hell did this mad bastard think he was? Just because he saw himself as some sort of vigilante didn’t mean he could go around kidnapping people off the street! 

 

Though...John wasn’t just anyone from off the street. He’d seen V kill two Finger men, granted he would have beaten those Finger men to a pulp himself, V or no V, and he’d gone with the man to blow up a building...not that he’d known that’s what they were going to do. 

 

John shook his head, the details didn’t matter now. The point was that the police were after him, no doubt intending to hand him over to the Finger as soon as they got him, and it was all because of V. He and Irene’s plans were pretty much shot to hell now that John was a wanted man, and he had no illusions that he wasn’t. He’d been tied to  V twice now, and anyone with any sense would think they were in cahoots, and it was. All. Because. Of.  _ V. _

 

John’s rage had reached a new level by the time he swung his legs off the bed and stood up. The room swayed for a moment and he clutched at the wall, his anger growing at V’s incapacitation of him.

 

Once he was steady he stormed out of room and looked around. He plowed down a short corridor made of the same pale stone and stopped dead when he entered the large open space at the end. 

 

The huge room made him think of the catacombs of a church, with high vaulted stone ceilings and rough hewn stone walls. Strangest of all, the room was decked out like a living room. There was a stereo on a low table, more shelves of books and a low leather couch in front of a wide flat screen. Lamps lit the space, and there were tables scattered throughout filled with papers and what John could only call junk. 

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. V had taken him to his home? He’d expected it to be some sort of headquarters, filled with charts and maps and high tech computers... not this normal looking...

 

Shaking the thoughts from his head he made his way across the room, to another door way that shared the wall with the flat screen. A flat screen..Jesus Christ…

 

He found himself in a kitchen and dining room that was once again dimly lit. A long black cape was draped over a dining table chair, and a cup of steaming tea sat on one of the marble counter tops in the kitchen. Another doorway stood between the kitchen and dining room, and John could hear soft sounds from behind it. Steeling himself he marched over to the door and threw it open.

 

It revealed another corridor.

 

John growled in frustration, just how big was this place? 

 

The corridor had three more dark wooden doors, and the noises were coming from the door directly in front of him. 

 

Rage simmering within him,John shoved the door open and found himself in a lab. John just had time to notice there was a wide variety of equipment, enough to make him think of Bart’s. Before V stole his attention. John’s eyes widened at the sight of the man sans his mask and hat. Although John couldn’t see his face, he could still seen the back of V’s head, and the scars that covered it.

 

Mottled red and white shiney skin covered a large patch of scalp behind V’s right ear. John’s medical brain kicked into gear automatically, diagnosing and categorizing; they were fully healed second degree burns from the looks of it. Not properly treated, but no sign of past infection. The rest of V’s head was covered in thick brown curls that hung long to cover the back of his neck. John couldn’t tell from this angle if the burns covered V’s face as well, but based on the large area of scalp that had been burned it made sense that they would.

 

Before he could take in any more of the room V’s deep voice rang out, making John jump.

 

“Get out!” he shouted,his voice shaking with rage. 

 

John beat a hasty retreat, slamming the door shut behind him. He was about to head back into his own room, when he remembered just why he’d come looking for V, and the rage came creeping back over his shock at V’s injuries.

 

“We need to talk!” he called through the door, trying to keep his voice steady.

 

There was the sound of a chair scraping back and some shuffling, then the door flew open and V towered over him, his mask and hat back in place. 

 

“Have you never heard of knocking?” he hissed.

 

John was so taken about by the absurdity of this statement from the man who’d  _ kidnapped  _ him, that he stood gaping as V brushed passed him and headed into the kitchen.

 

Clenching his jaw in fury he stormed after V, who was holding a cup of tea and seemed to be contemplating it for some reason.

 

“Did you really expect good manners from the person you kidnapped?” John said, his voice rising with each word.

 

V set the cup down and turned to him, the black eye holes of the mask deeply unsettling in the low light. The silence stretched between them, with V staring at his hands and John staring at V. Finally V spoke. 

 

“Would you rather I left you for the Finger?” he asked quietly, walking towards John with his hands folded behind his back.

 

John stared at him, did V honestly think he’d be  _ grateful  _ he’d been taken…

 

“I had my own plans, which I told you on that roof!” John straightened his spine as V got closer, unwilling to show any fear in front of him.

 

“Ah yes, your  _ plans _ ,” V’s words dripped with disdain. “The one involving the fire escape, or the one where you magically teleport out of London?” 

 

John inhaled sharply as his anger rose. “If you’re looking for a thank you for kidnapping me don’t hold your breath!” 

 

V scoffed and turned away from him, his body language radiating waves of annoyance.

 

“I’m not looking for thanks. My  _ God _ , how dense can you be! Think for moment where’d you’d  be if I’d left you… and don’t tell me out of London, the Finger had the building surrounded. If you’d gone down the fire escape you’d be under Mary Morstan’s  _ tender care _ by now spilling every little secret you have.”

 

V twisted around to face him, his voice softer, but still sharp, “They think you know me, they think we’re working together. What do you think would have happened when they caught you? I had a choice. I could have left to be tortured and then executed, or I could have gotten you out. Based on our... _ history...  _ together I brought you back here. Now do you need me to spell anything else out for you, or can I go back to work?”

 

John was shaking with anger by the time V had finished speaking. Of all the arrogant, fucked up forms of reasoning he’d ever seen in his life, this took the cake. Arguing with the man would be pointless, not when he felt he’d done the right thing.

 

“Just point me in the right direction and I’ll be out of your hair,” he said, his voice low with rage. 

 

V looked at him and John had to resist the urge to flinch as the empty eye holes of the mask locked onto him. 

 

“If you’re worried I’ll tell anyone where you are, just knock me out again and dump me somewhere, I’ll figure it out.”

 

“Didn’t you listen to anything I just said?” V asked, his tone incredulous. “You’re  _ wanted _ . The Finger will snatch you up in no time.”

 

“And I can take care of myself.” John said tartly, folding his arms across his chest. 

 

V sighed and raised a hand as if to scrub it over his face, before releasing the mask was in the way. 

 

“I’m afraid that won’t work, John.” he said slowly, “There’s too much at stake.” 

 

John stared at him a moment, his worst fears being confirmed. “You mean I have to stay here?”

 

“My plans will be complete by the 5th of November next, then you can leave. This place is large and you’ll have full run of it.” He glanced back at the door that lead to the lab, “Well, almost full run of it.”

 

“I don’t care how big this fucking mausoleum is! I have to stay here for a  _ year _ ?” 

 

The bile was rising in John’s throat. This felt all too familiar to being taken by the juvenile assignment program, being ripped away from everything he knew and thrust into a new, harsh reality. V was staring at him, the stupid mask looking more ghoulish than ever.

 

“Fuck you!” he spat, his voice shaking, “You should have left me alone, why couldn’t you just leave me alone!” 

 

With that, he turned and stormed off. 

 

***

 

Greg Lestrade sat at his desk at the Yard, his eyes were crusty with lack of sleep and he needed a shower badly, but he couldn’t leave, not until he’d found  _ something  _ in the mess they’d made at the BTN.

 

Sitting back in his chair, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and rewound the CCTV footage from the roof of the BTN building. As he restarted it, his office door swung open revealing Sally Donovan.

 

“You’re still at it?” she asked, coming fully into the office and eyeing him with concern. “It’s almost midnight Greg, go home.”

 

“I could say the same to you.” Greg said distractedly, his eyes glued to the mass of black flying through a window and landing smoothly on the roof below. 

 

“The team just got back from Watson’s flat, I was waiting on the report.” Sally sounded uncomfortable, as if Greg would reprimand her for hanging back. What he really wanted was more team members like her, who had the same drive for the job. 

 

“Did you watch the video?” he asked, brow furrowed as he watched V and John Watson interact on screen.

 

V appeared to be the same height and build as….though it was hard to tell with that stupid cloak billowing around all over the place. No , it couldn’t be. He was dead. Died in a fire. It was over. 

 

“Yeah I did,” Sally said, cutting into his thoughts. “Shame there wasn’t any sound.

 

Greg nodded, watching V jab Watson in the neck and knock him unconscious. 

 

“It looks like we were wrong” Sally said, coming around to stand next to Greg, her eyes on the monitor.

 

Greg blinked and looked up at her, waiting for her to elaborate. 

 

“I mean, they weren’t working together, it’s clear now.” Sally said, shifting her weight slightly from foot to foot. 

 

“Go on,” Greg said, he had his own theory, but wanted to hear Sally’s take on it before he laid out his own thoughts.

 

“Well, first there’s the obvious. Why would this ‘V’ knock out his accomplice? It just created more work for him to carry Watson away,” she said, pointing to V hoisting Watson over his shoulder on screen.

 

“And then, there’s this,” she leaned in front of Greg and pulled back the video to an earlier time, “Look at Watson’s stance, he looks defensive, ready to fight, you wouldn’t look like that if you’re working with someone, and you wouldn’t stop in the middle of an escape to chat with your chum. I don’t think Watson knows him, at least not well.”

 

Greg nodded, her thoughts reflected his own, “Nail on the head as usual Sally,” he said, giving her the best smile he could manage. “That just makes more problems for us though.”

 

Sally shot him and inquiring look.

 

“Well, if John Watson isn’t in league with V, how’d they end up at the Baliey bombing together? Why did V bother to take him? And where in the hell are they now?” 

 

***

 

 

John lay on his side, curled into a tight ball on the bed and trying to fight off the feeling of hopelessness with in him. He had no idea how many hours had passed since his row with V. 

 

He’d spent at least an hour after that combing through the whole of V’s lier, looking for a means of escape. He’d found a training room, complete with a punching bag, weights and other other workout gear, a bathroom adjacent to his bedroom and three other rooms filled with dusty boxes and junk. The only locked door had been the one that lead to corridor with V’s lab and what John could only assume were his bedroom and bathroom.

 

He hadn’t even seen any windows.

 

He’d found what he assumed was the front door, a thick metal thing with no hinges or visible lock. They’re wasn’t even a keypad or fingerprint reader. He’d yelled and pounded on it, but all that got him were sore fists.

 

The despair that he’d been trying to clamp down on throughout his search had washed over him then and he’d trudged back to his room. He was stuck. The only way to escape would be to somehow trick V into letting him out. He could torture the way out of him, but the thought made John cringe. Doing that would make him no better than the Finger. 

 

John Watson was many things, but he was  _ nothing  _ like the Finger Men.

 

Just then a knock came at the door.

 

“John?” V’s voice came tentatively through the door, “There’s dinner if you’re hungry.”

 

John didn’t reply, curling up tighter on the bed. The last thing he wanted to do was eat with his kidnapper. 

 

He heard V’s footsteps as the man walked away, then all was quiet again.

 

 

***

 

Hours had passed, at least that’s what he thought, and John was parched. He thought of V’s kitchen and the cup of tea that had been sitting on the counter, his tongue gliding over his cracked lips. 

 

Why did he think starving himself was helping his situation? If anything he should be conserving his strength to try to figure a way out of this. 

 

Sighing, John swung his legs over the bed and made his way out into the living room. To his surprise V was sitting on the couch, watching telly. The man turned and regarded him silently, the mask unreadable. 

 

“I was just,” John fidgeted with the hem of his grubby shirt, “I was just going to get some water.”

 

V nodded once and John hustled into the kitchen. The mask was seemed to be getting more unnerving every time he saw it. Especially since he knew he was stuck with it now. 

 

He was at the fridge chugging down a glass of water when V spoke again, making him jump a mile. The floors were stone and he was wearing boots for christ’s sake, how was he so quiet?

 

“There are leftovers if you’re hungry.”

 

Wordlessly, John yanked open the fridge, it was stocked with a surprisingly normal array of food. For a moment John wondered how the man did the shopping. Did he go out in that get up? An image of V, mask, cape and all, pushing a trolley through Tesco jumped into his head and John giggled despite himself. He must be losing it. 

 

Smothering his giggles, he grabbed a container of food from the second shelf, a fork form the drain board, and trudged over the the dining table. His mirth faded as reality settled back in. 

 

“I can heat it up for you.”

 

John shook his head, cracked open the container and dug in. Cold sheppard's pie wasn’t that bad.

 

V sighed from the doorway and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

 

“This isn’t an ideal situation for either of us, but we could-

 

John held up a hand, his eyes still glued to his food. He didn’t want to talk to V at all, but especially not about that. He’d just get angry again.

 

V sighed again and came over to table, dropping into the seat opposite John. A pair of gloved hands came into view as he folded his hands together on the table, but John refused to look  at him. It was a childish move, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. 

 

“What were you smuggling?” V asked suddenly, breaking the strained silence.

 

John choked a little on his food, did this man honestly think he would share just because they were cooped up together. He shot V a glare and stabbed at his food.

 

“I bet I can figure out.” 

 

John simply chewed in response, not looking at the man.

 

“Weapons? No, you’re coat wasn’t bulky enough.” his tone was light, as if they were playing a game. 

 

John glared harder at his food.

 

“Banned books? No, those aren’t worth the risk you were taking.” 

 

John had the distinct impression V knew exactly what he’d been smuggling that night, and was simply teasing him for his own amusement. He felt his rage slowly begin to creep back over him.

 

“Ah I know,” V said, “If it’s not guns or books, then it must be…..drugs, medicine to be more exact.” There was a quiet note of triumph in his voice.  

 

John felt the dam break. He shoved his food away and stood up, hands balling into fists at his sides. 

 

“Yes! Yes it was medicine! Good for you, you figured it out! Would you like a gold star for that? I was trying to help in this fucked up system where those who need the drugs can’t get them, and those who can just take it to get their fat arses high! But I can’t even do that anymore because some sick fuck in a ridiculous outfit decided to  _ help me  _ by snatching me out of my life and stuffing me underground! Are you happy now?” 

 

John was panting hard, his food churning unpleasantly in his stomach. V simply stared at him, his hands still neatly folded on the table in front of him. 

 

“God, you really think I should be grateful, don’t you?” John spat, stalking around the table. 

 

V calmly stood up, towering over John. 

 

“I already explained myself John. Repeating myself would only make you angrier.”   
  


John stared at him a moment, wanting nothing more than to throttle the man in front of him. Instead he twisted around and marched toward his room. 

 

“You figured out we’re underground, good for you.” V called after him, his voice snide.

 

John flipped him two fingers over his shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a bit of trouble to write, I would love your feed back!


End file.
